


Full Circle

by Dawn (sunrize83)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/Dawn
Summary: What if there was more to one of those bogus fertilizer checks for Kersh? A routine assignment turns deadly and resurrects painful memories from Mulder's childhood.





	1. Chapter 1

Gundersen Farm  
Somewhere outside Wichita  
Wednesday 3:00 am 

*This can't be happening.* 

The thought continued to swirl through Scully's mind, an answer to every  
question and a coda to every statement. Sometimes it was just a soft  
whisper, a gentle insistence that things couldn't really be as terrible  
as they seemed. 

As she felt the tremors wrack her partner's lean frame and felt the heat  
from his skin.  
*This can't be happening.* 

As his beautiful hazel eyes became glassy and no longer focused on her  
own when she spoke to him.  
*This can't be happening.* 

As she felt the warm stickiness of his blood coating her hands and used  
her sleeve to wipe the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth  
when he coughed.  
*This can't be happening.* 

But sometimes the reality, the horror of the situation slammed into her  
like a freight train; and the soft whisper became an agonized wail that  
echoed throughout every molecule of her being and blotted out all other  
thought. Like now. 

She'd dropped into a light doze, exhausted by the tension and lulled by  
the harsh rhythm of his labored breathing, as strange as it might seem.  
The wet rattle in his chest had deepened, and each breath he drew into  
his damaged lung sounded the same - a wheezing gasp of air, a slight  
catch, then an almost explosive sigh. It was as if the effort of pulling  
the air into his lungs robbed him of any control when releasing it.  
Wheeze, catch, sigh. Wheeze, catch, sigh. 

He'd passed into a state of semi-consciousness. Breathing took too much  
effort for him to sink completely into the darkness that hovered, but he  
was limp and unresponsive when Scully tried to speak with him. So,  
cradling him in her lap, her hand still pressed against the bullet wound  
even though the bleeding had slowed to a trickle, she allowed herself to  
drift just a little. 

Wheeze, catch, sigh. Wheeze, catch, sigh. 

Scully snapped back into full consciousness, her heart pounding.  
Something was wrong. Mulder . . . 

Then, with frightening clarity, she realized what had awakened her.  
Silence. Total silence. Mulder was a dead weight in her arms (*not dead,  
don't think dead*) and his chest was still. 

*THISCAN'TBEHAPPENINGTHISCAN'TBEHAPPENINGTHISCAN'TBEHAPPENING* 

"Mulder!" 

Her voice was sharp, ragged with unsuppressed panic, and she gave his  
shoulders a rough shake, heedless now of the bleeding wound and seeking  
only a response - any response. 

He moaned (the most beautiful sound Scully thought she had ever heard)  
and began to emit harsh, wracking coughs that she knew must be akin to a  
knife in his chest. Fresh blood ran from the corner of his mouth and she  
mopped at it gently with the towel, which was already stained with  
rust-colored streaks of drying blood from previous coughing bouts. 

"Sc...lee." 

So weak it was barely distinguishable from the ragged breaths that had  
resumed once the coughs abated. His eyes struggled to find hers, but  
they kept slipping away, losing focus and sliding shut only to open once  
more as he fought to connect with her. 

"I'm right here, Partner," Scully assured him, her voice as calm and  
soothing as she could make it despite the trembling that had begun the  
moment she realized he'd stopped breathing. She stroked her fingers  
through his silky hair and blinked rapidly to dispel lingering tears. 

His eyes struggled to find hers again and he licked chapped lips.  
"Thirsty." 

Scully hesitated only a moment, unsure if fluids by mouth were in his  
best interest at this point. He licked his lips again and she reached  
for the bottle of water. *What difference does it make now? He's dying.*  
She immediately berated herself for the thought even as she carefully  
poured a little into his mouth. He managed to swallow without succumbing  
to another coughing spell, but turned his head aside when she tried to  
offer more. 

Scully saw Mulder's eyes begin to drift shut, and was seized with a  
sudden sense of panic. He'd just come treacherously close to slipping  
away from her forever, and she was determined to stop him from doing  
that. Her rational, scientist's mind told her the facts. Mulder was in  
incredible pain and barely taking in enough oxygen to survive. Infection  
had set in, bringing with it fever and a whole new batch of miseries for  
him. Their only hope of rescue rested on the promise of a criminal. It  
would be kinder to let him sleep. To let him go. 

Scully blinked furiously when fresh tears threatened. She didn't care if  
the situation was hopeless. She couldn't let him go. Not because she  
didn't feel his suffering - she felt it in a place much deeper than mere  
physical pain could reach, and would willingly take Mulder's agony upon  
herself if possible. Not because she trusted Gundersen, a man who had  
already shown the brutal side of himself. And certainly not because she  
thought Kersh would come through for them (what a joke) and somehow pull  
off a rescue. 

No, she couldn't let him go for one reason, and one reason only. Because  
a life without Mulder was simply unthinkable. She remembered when, as a  
child, her priest attempted to explain the concept of God. He'd said  
that her finite mind was incapable of grasping the full measure of God's  
power and majesty. Now her mind seemed equally incapable of grasping the  
concept of a Mulderless existence. 

"Stay with me, Mulder," she said sharply, gratified when his eyes  
snapped open. "Don't sleep. I need you to stay awake." 

"Tired." 

The single word was slurred with weariness. Scully could see how  
valiantly he fought to remain focused on her, the effort monumental. 

"I know you are. But you have to concentrate on breathing, Mulder. I  
almost lost you for a moment back there." 

"H..." 

Another series of coughs erupted, not as harsh but, judging from  
Mulder's face, equally painful. Scully had the uneasy feeling that  
Mulder's rapidly accelerating weakness was the only reason the spasms  
were less forceful. She held onto him as firmly as possible without  
causing him further discomfort, and waited. The hateful, maddening sense  
of helplessness welled up in her again, and she felt it transforming  
into a white-hot rage. All her training, all her knowledge, and when she  
needed it most she was useless. The lock on the door, and the chain  
around her ankle were Mulder's death warrant. She could go nowhere, and  
though he was completely unfettered, neither could he. 

*This can't be happening.* 

But it was. And, like a child who can't stop picking at a scab, Scully  
found her thoughts returning to the chain of circumstances that had  
brought them to this point. 

Gundersen Farm  
13 hours earlier 

Scully turned off the engine, glanced over at her partner, and sighed  
the sigh of a true martyr. He was faking, and he probably knew she knew  
it. She was aware that Mulder had been sleeping even less than usual,  
spending every spare minute behind a microscope, attempting to restore  
files. It was tedious, painstaking work, and he'd begun coming into the  
bullpen each morning with dark circles under his eyes. 

But she also knew that Mulder's weariness went far beyond mere physical  
or mental fatigue. It was a weariness of the spirit. "They" knew him  
well enough to strike between the chinks in the considerable armor he'd  
built up over the years. How do you break Fox Mulder? Not with official  
reprimands. Not with the scorn and derision of his colleagues. But by  
removing all challenges. By giving him rote, repetitive tasks which did  
nothing to stimulate and stretch his complex brain. By causing his mind  
to stagnate and removing any hope of making a difference in the world. 

At least they were still partners. But Scully had to admit she was  
feeling the burden keenly. Fox Mulder tended to be a needy individual  
even during the best of times. Now he was often unbearable - sarcastic  
and angry one moment, withdrawn and depressed the next. *Good times* she  
thought wearily. *Are we having fun yet?* 

"Come on, Mulder, let's get this over with," she said, impatience  
creeping into her voice. 

Mulder's eyes slowly opened and Scully braced herself for the hurt puppy  
look that she knew was coming. Sure enough, he did the lip thing. 

"Mulder, I am not doing this by myself." 

"Sculleee..." 

He's not cute when he does that, Scully told herself fiercely. It's 95  
degrees and I just want a shower and an air-conditioned motel room.  
Mulder's little boy pout is not going to make me do this crappy job  
alone. 

"I mean it, Mulder. If I have to check someone's manure consumption,  
you're right there with me. Partners - remember?" 

He must have heard the warning note in her voice, because Mulder sighed  
heavily and got out of the car, looking extremely unhappy. 

Scully's gaze softened. "Look, Mulder, I know you're bored. I know you  
miss the X files. I miss the X files. But right now Kersh is holding the  
end of our leash, and if we screw this up we'll never get them back." 

Mulder adjusted his jacket, already feeling a thin sheen of perspiration  
coat his body. "I never thought I'd say this, Scully. And if you ever  
call me on it I will deny it with my last breath..." He sighed. "God, I  
miss Skinner." 

Scully grinned at him, knowing how much he actually liked and respected  
their former boss. "Look at it this way, Mulder. This may be the nicest  
thing you've ever done for him." 

His brief grin at her remark quickly faded as they drew near to the  
house, and he moaned. 

"What?" Scully asked. 

"The windows are open and so is the front door. They don't have air  
conditioning - or if they do, they're not using it." 

"Good, old-fashioned country living, I guess," Scully said brightly,  
though in reality she was no more pleased than her partner. 

Mulder shot her a look of thinly veiled hostility, but assumed his  
professional G-man persona. When they reached the screen door Scully  
began searching for a doorbell, but could find none. Mulder grinned at  
her and stepped forward. 

"Scully, you're forgetting where we are. Allow me." 

He raised his right hand and rapped loudly on the wooden frame of the  
screen door, calling, "Anybody home?" 

Scully rolled her eyes, but his method did yield results. A boy in his  
early teens appeared at the door, eyeing them warily. 

"Can I help you?" 

Mulder held up his ID, as did Scully. "Agents Mulder and Scully from the  
FBI. We'd like to see Bert Gundersen." 

Even through the screen they could see the boy pale. "Th..that's my  
dad," he stammered. "Is something wrong?" 

"Not at all," Scully replied, reassuringly. "It's just a routine check." 

"That's right," Mulder agreed. "We just need to verify the details of  
some of your father's purchases of sh...manure." 

Scully shot Mulder a glare that would have frozen hot peppers, but the  
boy barely concealed a grin and seemed to relax. With a sudden flash of  
admiration, Scully realized that had been Mulder's intent. The slip of  
the tongue was orchestrated to put the boy at ease. She hid her own  
smile. 

"My dad isn't home right now. He should be back any minute though." 

"Could we just come in and wait?" Scully suggested, trying to ignore the  
sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades and causing her silk  
blouse to become plastered to her skin. 

The semi-panicked look returned to the boy's face at her words. "Uh... I'm  
not supposed to let anyone in the house when Dad's gone," he said  
hesitantly. 

Once again the Mulder charm saved the day. 

"What's your name?" he asked casually. 

"Uh... Robert. Robert Gundersen." 

"Bobby or Robbie?" 

"Robbie." 

"Good. Bobby always makes me think of the Brady Bunch. Couldn't stand  
that kid." 

The boy actually grinned at Mulder. "Me neither." 

"Look, Robbie, I'm sure your Dad has a good reasons for not letting  
people in the house. But do you really think he'd want you to leave two  
harmless FBI agents out in the blistering sun?" 

Some of the fear had crept back into Robbie's face, but it was obvious  
Mulder was winning him over. 

"Well, I guess he wouldn't mind. I mean, you're like the police, right?  
And you can't not let the police in if they come to the door." 

"Unless they're selling tickets to a fundraiser," Mulder agreed, opening  
the screen and stepping inside. Robbie allowed them entrance, and even  
gestured to the sofa in the living room. Scully followed her partner,  
instantly more comfortable in the relatively cooler interior. She  
listened while Mulder kept up the soothing banter with Robbie,  
impressed. *Mulder, you keep unfolding like a flower.* 

Once they were seated on the comfortable sofa, Robbie actually offered  
them a drink and went off to the kitchen to get iced tea. Mulder felt  
Scully's eyes on him. 

"What?" he asked defensively. 

"Nothing. I just wouldn't have expected you to be so good with a kid his  
age." 

Mulder shrugged, looking almost embarrassed by her approval. "You accuse  
me of being juvenile often enough, Scully. Maybe I relate to him on his  
own level." 

Scully arched an eyebrow, but her reply was aborted when Robbie  
reappeared with two glasses of tea. She accepted hers gratefully,  
sighing in pleasure after consuming a long draught. Mulder looked  
amused, but turned to Robbie rather than remark on it. 

"So, are you in middle school, Robbie? High school?" 

"Middle school - seventh grade," Robbie replied a little shyly. 

"Play sports?" 

Instant transformation. Robbie's eyes sparkled and he lit up like a  
candle from within. "Basketball, mostly. Some soccer." He seemed to  
take in Mulder's lanky frame. 

"You play basketball?" 

Scully couldn't repress a snort of amusement, which Mulder chose to  
ignore. Mulder and basketball - a hundred images shot through her head  
at the words: countless times of retrieving him from the gym after a  
pick-up game, being forced to endure the distraction of a Knicks game  
when they were attempting to do paperwork, and a perfect basket made  
from mid-court in an attempt to gain the truth from a killer. 

"I played in high school," was Mulder's reply. 

"Not college?" 

Mulder grinned. "I went to college in England. Got sucked into soccer." 

Robbie's eyes widened. "No kidding? England?" 

"Oxford," Mulder said. 

"Must have been awesome," Robbie sighed, a bit of a dreamy expression on  
his face at the thought. "Someday I'm going to get out of this lousy  
place. Somewhere far, far from here and..." 

The sharp slap of the screen door shutting caused Robbie to jump  
guiltily to his feet, words forgotten. Scully turned to speak to Mulder,  
but stopped when she saw his face. It had turned from open and friendly  
to a watchful mask. He was staring at Robbie intently, his expression  
speculative. Confused, Scully turned her gaze back to Robbie to see what  
had captured her partner's attention so completely. 

"Robbie! Whose car is that in the driveway? You better not have anyone  
in this house." 

The voice was deep and rough, the anger plain. Just as plain as the fear  
that she saw in Robbie's face. But why? Surely Robbie realized  
everything would be all right once they'd explained. Wouldn't it? 

Gundersen Farmhouse  
Somewhere outside Wichita  
Tuesday 2:34 p.m. 

Heavy footfalls on the hardwood floor, and a moment later a very large  
man entered the room. Where Robbie was slight of build and dark in  
coloring, this man was stocky and heavily muscled, his hair and skin  
light in tone. A heavy beard, neatly trimmed, covered his face and his  
brown eyes were sharp with annoyance. 

Scully and Mulder rose to their feet, both pulling out ID at the same  
time. When Scully glanced at her partner and saw the guarded expression  
on his face, all emotion missing, she figured it was her turn to take  
charge. Mulder may very well have a knack for 13-year-old boys, but  
she'd been known to best his ability to soothe the disgruntled -  
especially if they were male. 

"Mr. Gundersen, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI, and this is  
my partner Special Agent Fox Mulder. We were sent here to check your  
paperwork for several large shipments of manure you received recently.  
Your son was kind enough to allow us some respite from the sun while we  
waited for you." 

Gundersen shot his son a piercing glare before stepping closer to Scully  
to scrutinize both badges. Scully waited with an air of patience she did  
not really feel, until the man nodded grudgingly. As she slipped her  
badge back into her pocket, she couldn't help wondering about the  
tension she felt coming off Mulder in waves. She could understand  
Robbie's discomfort - he'd technically broken a rule by allowing them  
into the house in his father's absence. Yes, he seemed to be  
over-reacting, but kids could be funny that way. 

It was her partner's demeanor that had her completely baffled. Mulder's  
normally expressive eyes were shuttered, and she caught him gazing from  
Robbie to his father and back again, his mind obviously working  
furiously on something. 

Scully sighed, but only inwardly, and turned her full attention back to  
the senior Gundersen. 

"I'd heard someone would be coming by, I just didn't realize it would be  
today," Bert Gundersen said in what could only be called a growl. "I  
would have made sure I was here. Robbie knows he isn't supposed to let  
anyone in the house while I'm away." 

"I'm afraid that's our fault," Mulder spoke up suddenly, turning his  
gaze from Robbie to his father. "We assured him it would be all right,  
under the circumstances. After all, it's not as if you have anything to  
hide, right?" 

Still confused by the cold and rather insolent expression Mulder was  
directing toward Bert Gundersen, and attempting to smooth things over,  
Scully added, "You should be proud of Robbie. He was the perfect host." 

Gundersen looked at his son, his expression one Scully couldn't have  
named if she tried. "I'll be sure to show him my appreciation. Later." 

The words were innocuous, but Robbie visibly paled. "I. . .uh. . .guess  
I'd better get busy with my chores. I've got some work to do in the  
barn," he said quickly, backing toward the door, his eyes still locked  
on his father. 

"Good idea," Gundersen said coolly. "I'll go get that paperwork for  
you," he said to the agents. 

Mulder opened his mouth to tell Robbie good-bye, but the banging of the  
screen door signaled he was already gone. 

Scully leaned closer to her partner so she could speak in a low voice.  
"What's the matter with you?" she said sharply, her brow creased with  
annoyance. "You're acting like this guy is guilty of a crime! This is  
just a routine check." 

Mulder returned her glare calmly, and Scully was further confused when  
she identified a new expression lurking in that gaze. Mulder was an  
expert at masking his emotions when he wished, and only she knew him  
well enough to see underneath. Hidden behind that carefully constructed  
façade was sadness. 

"Maybe he is a guilty, Scully," he answered quietly. "Just not of the  
crime you're thinking." 

Scully arched an eyebrow at his cryptic statement, but before she could  
ask Mulder exactly what he meant, Gundersen returned with the papers. 

"Everything's in order," he told them sullenly. "I'm just a farmer, not  
public enemy number one." 

Mulder opened his mouth to comment, but was silenced by "the look" from  
his partner. 

"Why don't you go on out to the car, Agent Mulder," she suggested, the  
honey in her tone barely disguising the steel that resided just beneath  
the surface. "I can handle this from here." 

Mulder opened his mouth once again to argue, then decided he placed too  
high a value on his life. Scully was pissed off - there was no doubt  
about it. And there were few things in life more dangerous than a pissed  
off Scully, including liver-eating mutants. So he did the only sensible  
thing. He snapped his mouth shut, returned her barely camouflaged glare  
with an openly hostile one of his own, and retreated. 

The internal temperature of the rental car had risen to at least 300  
degrees, and Mulder stripped off both jacket and tie, flinging them into  
the back seat and rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. At  
least I'll be cooler, he thought smugly. With that white silk blouse and  
this heat, she'll never be able to remove her jacket. The rational  
portion of his brain recognized the pettiness of his thoughts, but was  
subordinated by the barely contained anger which had grown steadily  
since Bert Gundersen had stepped into his home. 

So Mulder leaned against the driver's door and waited, occasionally  
mopping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, until Scully emerged from  
the farmhouse and strode briskly to the passenger door. Ignoring the  
daggers her partner was shooting with eyes that had turned nearly black  
in anger, she opened the door and slipped inside. After a moment, Mulder  
did likewise. 

He slipped the keys into the ignition and started the car, wincing when  
his fingers contacted the hot steering wheel. Scully continued to ignore  
the vibes he was emitting and leaned over to adjust the air conditioning  
to full blast. Of course at the moment all it was blasting was hot air,  
and Mulder turned the fan back down while making a grunt of irritation. 

"Mulder! It's like a furnace in here!" Scully snapped impatiently,  
reaching for the knob. 

Mulder caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision, and his  
mind noted the fact that Bert Gundersen had exited the farmhouse and was  
heading for the barn even as his hand shot out to seize Scully's wrist.  
None too gently. 

Scully's slight hiss of discomfort was enough to snap his attention back  
to the interior of the car and cause him to release his hold as if  
burned. 

"What is wrong with you, Mulder?" she demanded, massaging the bones of  
her wrist. With a deep sense of shame, Mulder observed the red marks  
left by his fingers. "You haven't been yourself ever since Gundersen  
came home! You were unprofessional, bordering on rude, and Kersh would  
have your butt if he got a complaint from that man!" 

Still seething with anger, but realizing it had nothing to do with his  
partner, Mulder remained silent throughout her tirade, drumming his  
fingers on the steering wheel and unable to keep from looking at the  
barn. 

". . .the heat? Mulder!" 

Realizing he'd just completely missed whatever his justifiably angry  
partner had said, Mulder turned his back on the barn and focused on  
Scully. It was a feat that took no small effort. To his surprise, Scully  
took one look at his face and the ire on her own seemed to evaporate. 

"You didn't hear any of what I was saying, did you Mulder?" she asked,  
but her voice was oddly gentle. 

Mulder tore his eyes from hers, the rage he had felt now oddly defused  
by her sudden tenderness. Once again, almost of their own volition, his  
eyes found the barn. 

Scully watched him silently. She sensed that something very profound was  
happening to Mulder, but was at a loss for what to do about it. His eyes  
just now had been. . .haunted. She noticed the way he kept watching the  
barn, and intuitively concluded his sharp shifts in mood somehow  
involved Robbie. Beyond that, she was completely baffled. 

"Tell me," was all she said, but the two words held a wealth of unspoken  
emotions. *You're my best friend. You mean everything to me, and I can't  
stand to see you hurting. Let me help you.* 

Scully wasn't sure what, if anything, she expected, but it certainly  
wasn't the statement that finally exploded from her partner or the  
barely restrained fury that returned just as suddenly as it had  
disappeared. The words were clipped short, the harsh, ragged edges in  
his voice a far cry from his normally mellow baritone. 

"That abusive son of a bitch beats his kid!" 

Inside the Car  
Gundersen Farm  
Tuesday 3:01 p.m. 

Scully was never speechless. That wasn't to say she spoke unnecessarily,  
but simply that her razor sharp mind was able to come up with a reply to  
anything that Mulder happened to throw her way. She'd been at it for  
over six years now, and she'd gotten pretty good at it. 

"Are you trying to say that. . ." 

Mulder, are you suggesting. . ." 

"So your theory is. . ." 

Yes, she'd had a wealth of experience responding to ideas that came  
soaring at her like a fast ball from a major league pitcher. An always  
entertaining, frequently annoying, slightly demented, incredibly  
brilliant pitcher. And she'd never struck out yet. Liver-eating mutants,  
beast women, mothmen, mind-controlling killers - her science hadn't  
faltered in the face of life's most bizarre concoctions. 

It all deserted her now. Dana Scully, master of the scientific  
explanation, gaped at her partner as the gears ground to a screeching  
halt. 

"What?"  
*Ooooh, brilliant response, Dana. That'll give him something to think  
about* the little voice in her head said snidely. She ignored it. 

Mulder's face had become blank, his gaze shuttered. He looked away from  
her to stare at his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, but even as  
she studied him while her thoughts tried to catch up, she saw his gaze  
wander to the barn again. 

The shock of his revelation wore off, and she ventured to reply, keeping  
her voice calm and reasonable. 

"Mulder, you barely spoke twenty words to that man. He barely spoke  
twenty words to his son while we were there. How can you make such an  
accusation?" 

Uh-oh. "The Look" took over Mulder's face and Scully had to struggle  
against the feelings it automatically produced in her. Those expressive  
eyes darkened, brows drew together, lips thinned, and his head tilted  
slightly to the side. It was the "I know what I just said is the gospel  
truth while you, on the other hand, understand nothing" look. It pissed  
her off. 

She pushed the anger into a tiny corner at the back of her mind, another  
ability six years with this man had given her, and decided to try again.  
"Mulder," her voice gentler this time. "We've both been through a lot  
this last year. I know you've been struggling. I know you're bored and  
you're frustrated. I know it doesn't seem like things are ever going to  
improve. When a person experiences that kind of stress in their life it  
is perfectly natural for physical and emotional consequences to manifest  
themselves - apathy, insomnia, nightmares. . ." 

His head snapped back around at her words, his expression at first  
startled, then wary. 

"Mulder, the walls are thin and there's only a connecting door between  
us. I know what you've been going through. It's been bad since  
Antarctica, hasn't it?" 

His only reply was to return his gaze to the barn, but she saw weary  
affirmation in the slump of his shoulders and the fact that "The Look"  
didn't return. 

"All I'm saying is that I think you may be a little less able to look at  
things objectively right now," Scully finished, reaching out to lay her  
hand on his arm. The gesture was meant to be soothing, but she was  
unprepared for the amount of tension she felt running through him like  
live current. 

"Somehow I don't think 'objective' is an adjective you'd use to describe  
me, Scully. Even under the best of circumstances," Mulder said quietly,  
but she caught the wry humor in his words. 

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze before releasing it, smiling softly.  
"Look, it's been a long day. This car is just beginning to lose its  
sauna feel. Let's go back to that rat-trap motel you found us, get  
cleaned up, and find someplace to have a nice dinner on the Bureau. It's  
the least Kersh owes us." 

Her words seemed to have the desired effect. Mulder didn't nod, but he  
did put the car in gear and began backing them down the long, dusty  
driveway. Scully was just beginning to congratulate herself on her  
ability in partner diplomacy when he abruptly applied the brakes and  
slammed the gearshift back into park. When he looked at her, it was with  
determination. 

"I can't do it. I have to go talk to him, Scully. It's my fault Robbie's  
in trouble, and it will be on my head if he gets hurt." 

Exasperation and the sweat trickling down her back killed the last ounce  
of patience Scully had. "Mulder! I thought we agreed you were  
over-reacting. There is nothing to indicate that Robbie is in any kind  
of danger." 

"The Look" again. 

"No, Scully. You agreed. I know what I heard, and I know what I saw." 

"Then enlighten me, Mulder. Because I was there too, and frankly, I saw  
nothing but a slightly moody teenage boy and a grumpy father." 

"Moody! Scully, he was terrified! Didn't you see how he reacted when the  
man came into the house? He looked like he'd been caught committing a  
felony instead of just letting a couple of FBI agents inside. He  
couldn't wait to get away from his father! How many boys do you know  
that would suddenly volunteer to go do their chores like that? And what  
about dear old dad? Did you hear what he said, Scully? 'I'll be sure to  
show him my appreciation later.' What exactly did you think he meant by  
that?" 

Scully couldn't help it - she rolled her eyes. "How about he meant what  
he said? Maybe he appreciated the fact that we were praising the boy.  
Maybe he was proud." 

Mulder snorted, turning away from her, his manner casually dismissing  
her rationale. He grasped the door handle and jerked it open, getting  
out of the still running car and then leaning in the open doorway.  
Scully was unable to name what she saw in his eyes when he looked at  
her. For a moment she had the eerie feeling that she was staring at a  
stranger and not the man she'd come to know and. . . Her mind neatly  
sidestepped the rest of that thought, classifying it as dangerous  
territory and relegating it to the same corner she'd sent her anger  
previously. 

"I don't want to fight about this, Scully," Mulder said, and his voice  
sounded suddenly old, as if he'd aged thirty years. "God knows, we've  
done enough of that lately. And I don't want to hurt your feelings -  
I've done too much of that as well. But frankly, you don't know what the  
hell you're talking about this time. Just wait here, and I promise I'll  
be back in a few minutes." 

He'd shut the door and was striding toward the barn before she had a  
chance to decide if his words had angered her, insulted her, or worried  
her. 

Inside the barn  
Gundersen Farm  
Tuesday 3:13 p.m. 

Mulder could hear Bert Gundersen before he'd even opened the door to the  
barn. The man's coarse baritone voice was raised in an angry tirade, the  
individual words distinguishable due to their volume. 

"Don't you have a brain in that empty head of yours? I ask practically  
nothing of you, and you can't even handle the small things! How could  
you be so incredibly stupid? You must be the most worthless kid on the  
face of the earth! I told you no one comes in the house when I'm gone!  
Is that so hard for you to understand?" 

Mulder paused with his hand on the rough boards of the door, closing his  
eyes as the memories swept over him like a wave and threatened to  
suffocate him with their intensity. "How could you let them take her?  
Where were you, Fox? Did you even try to stop it? Or were you hiding  
like the spineless coward I know you are? It should have been you, not  
her! Samantha was worth ten of you." 

Mulder swallowed in a vain attempt to rid himself of the lump in his  
throat. He was an adult now. More than twenty-five years had passed  
since Samantha had vanished, taking life as he knew it along with her.  
How, after all those years, could the memories be so painful, the edges  
sharp enough that he still bled inside? 

"Scully," he whispered, struggling to regain control of volatile  
emotions. "You have no idea..." 

More than twenty-five years, and he'd thought all the coping mechanisms  
were in place. Not dealt with, exactly, but relegated to a distant  
corner of his brain where he could pretend he'd forgotten. Until Robbie.  
He'd looked at the boy, seen the story told so clearly in haunted eyes,  
and realized he'd come full circle - that scared, hurt, angry twelve  
year old still very much a part of him. 

Robbie's tearful voice cut into his thoughts. "I said I was sorry! I  
thought since they were FBI agents it was different and would be  
okay..." 

The cracking sound of a slap cut off Robbie's protest. Shoving his own  
pain aside, Mulder straightened and mentally donned his FBI persona.  
Losing his temper was not an option. Robbie would be the one to suffer. 

He pushed the door open, welcoming the screech of its rusty hinges. The  
last thing he wanted right now was to startle Gundersen into reacting  
defensively. Mulder wasn't sure if he could make a difference for  
Robbie, but he knew he had to try. In all the years that his father had  
battered him, both physically and emotionally, no one had ever tried to  
stop it. Not even his own mother. 

When he strode into the barn, the first thing Mulder saw was Robbie,  
tears in his eyes and a trembling hand pressed to his left cheek. Bert  
Gundersen swung around to face him, his expression still thunderous with  
barely controlled anger. 

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, striding forward. "I showed your  
partner what she needed, your business here is finished. Now get out!" 

Mulder was unfazed by the man's hostility, but something else lurked  
beneath the anger. Something he struggled to put a name to until it  
abruptly snapped into place with perfect clarity. The man was nervous.  
The bluster he directed Mulder's way was a cover for a deep anxiety,  
most likely due to the blow he'd just given his son. Child abuse in the  
presence of a federal agent would make anyone nervous, Mulder reasoned.  
All these thoughts passed through his brain in an instant, and he forced  
himself to smile - though what he wanted to do to Bert Gundersen was  
something entirely different. 

"Relax, Mr. Gundersen," he said soothingly. "I just came back because I  
wanted to be sure I didn't get Robbie into trouble. I used my badge to  
convince him to let my partner and me into your home - it really wasn't  
his choice." 

As he spoke Mulder pulled his eyes away from Robbie's father, afraid the  
man would notice the smile on his face was wooden at best, and that  
looking for too long at the man would destroy his resolution to keep his  
temper in check. Instead, he allowed his gaze to wander around the  
barn's interior. It wasn't exactly fascinating scenery, but it provided  
the necessary distraction. His attention was forced back to Gundersen,  
however, when the man purposely got into his face. 

"There's no trouble between me and my son, Agent Mulder, so you can  
clear out," he insisted, punctuating his words by grasping Mulder's arm  
just above the elbow and attempting to turn him back toward the door. 

Trying hard to remember why he wasn't allowed to acquaint his fist with  
Gundersen's face, Mulder wrenched his arm from Bert's grasp and refused  
to be led. "That's not how it sounded when I walked in here, Mr.  
Gundersen." He congratulated himself on the cool, unemotional inflection  
of his voice. What he really wanted was to deck the creep for trying to  
bully him the way he did his son. He looked over at Robbie and was  
dismayed to see the boy more rigid with fear than before he'd gotten  
involved. 

"I'm fine, Agent Mulder, really," Robbie assured him, trying to cover  
the livid red mark on his cheek. "Don't worry about me. You should  
listen to my dad and leave." *Please* his eyes said *go now and don't  
make things worse.* 

Knowing that all was not well, yet torn by the pleading look on Robbie's  
face, Mulder allowed Robbie's father to propel him closer to the door.  
And it almost happened. He was so close to leaving, to giving both  
Gundersens what they seemed to want from him by disappearing without  
further fuss. But he turned back just in time to catch the panicked look  
that Robbie shot at a pile of crates sitting in the corner near where he  
stood. Almost without thinking about it, Mulder looked to see what was  
obviously contributing to Robbie's anxiety. 

And time slowed. 

Some of the crates had writing stamped on their sides - large red  
letters that were easy for Mulder to read, even from a distance. DANGER!  
EXPLOSIVE MATERIAL - HANDLE WITH EXTREME CAUTION. And then his eyes  
found a crate that was unmarked but partially opened, some of the  
packing material pulled out onto the floor and a gleam of dark metal  
just visible within. Guns. 

A thousand thoughts flitted through Mulder's head in the instant his  
brain identified the weapons, but only one took prominence. *Scully. I  
have to warn Scully.* 

But it was already too late. Although it had only taken a split second  
for Mulder to identify the contents of the crates and realize the  
danger, Gundersen noticed the slight pause and the change in his manner. 

"I think maybe you'd better not leave us just yet, Agent Mulder," he  
said shrewdly, his fist suddenly around Mulder's arm again but this time  
in a viselike grip. 

"I appreciate the hospitality," Mulder replied sarcastically, "but I  
wouldn't want to put you to any more trouble." 

"Oh, it's a little too late for that. You should have left the first  
time, kept your nose out of other people's business. We'd all be much  
happier right now." A gun appeared from where it had been tucked in the  
waistband of Gundersen's pants, hidden by his blue work shirt. Gundersen  
grinned wolfishly at him and gestured for Mulder to head toward where  
Robbie stood, face pale. 

"Over there," he ordered, relieving Mulder of his weapon and giving him  
a shove to get him moving. "Robbie, go get some rope." 

Robbie didn't move, frozen in place, his eyes locked with Mulder's. 

"Robbie!" Gundersen snapped without taking his eyes off Mulder. "For  
once in your life do something right! Go get some rope!" 

Mulder returned Robbie's gaze calmly, trying to communicate reassurance  
even as he wracked his brain for a way out of the trouble in which he'd  
landed himself. 

"Dad, please don't! I can't..." 

This time his father did tear his gaze from Mulder to fix Robbie with a  
murderous stare, roaring, "Don't look at him, look at me! I'm your  
father and you'll do as I say or..." 

Seeing Gundersen's attention waver, and realizing this was possibly the  
only chance he'd have, Mulder lunged forward while twisting his body at  
the same time to break the man's hold. He immediately spun around and  
grabbed for the gun. By this time Gundersen had recovered from his  
initial surprise, and Mulder found himself grappling desperately with a  
man his own height and fifty pounds heavier. The result was that  
Gundersen's arm - and consequently the weapon - was flung wildly about,  
sometimes pointing at the roof, sometimes the floor, and all points in  
between. 

Mulder finally managed to get an iron grip on Gundersen's wrist and was  
twisting, a tactic that seemed to be working, judging by the grunts of  
pain coming from the man and the fact that his hold on the firearm  
seemed to be loosening. Then Robbie emitted a small cry of distress, and  
Mulder realized with sudden horror that the gun was pointed in the boy's  
direction with his father's finger still wrapped around the trigger. 

"Robbie, move!" he warned sharply. "Get out of here!" 

The momentary loss of focus was enough. Just as Gundersen's brief  
attention to his son had given the agent an opportunity to begin the  
struggle, Mulder's momentary concern for Robbie was enough to permit  
Gundersen to end it. The big man jerked his wrist free, at the same  
moment shoving Mulder hard with his other hand. The sudden loss of his  
hold coupled with the push robbed Mulder of his balance and he stumbled  
backward, desperately fighting to stay on feet that wanted to tangle.  
The single crack of the gun discharging, a searing burn in his chest,  
and Mulder lost the battle, his legs crumpling beneath him. Somewhere  
through the haze of crushing pain that enveloped him in its arms like an  
old friend, Mulder heard Robbie scream. 

Inside the car  
Gundersen Farm  
Tuesday 3:30 p.m. 

*Mulder, you are going to pay for this.* 

Scully heaved a sigh and turned off the ignition, causing the blessedly  
cool air to cease. She'd had all three vents trained on various portions  
of her anatomy, and was just beginning to feel cool, the last of the  
sweat dried on her skin. The last thing she wanted right now was to go  
back out into that inferno. 

Scully jerked the handle of her door with open hostility, slamming it  
noisily once she had exited the vehicle. Mulder had said he'd be right  
back fifteen minutes ago. Somehow he'd managed to ditch her while she  
was within 300 yards. After only a moment's hesitation, she began  
stalking across the field toward the barn that held such fascination for  
her partner. Even though she was wearing a pair of pumps with only  
modest heels, they kept becoming mired in the dirt, causing her to  
stumble drunkenly. 

"You are in so deep, Mulder," she muttered under her breath, trying to  
balance on the balls of her feet and feeling like an idiot. "You'll be  
doing all the paperwork for this one." 

Scully was within ten feet of the barn when the pop of a gunshot made  
her instinctively drop to the ground. She held her breath for a moment  
until she realized that the sound had come from within the structure. A  
snapshot image of the rage distorting Mulder's face passed before her  
eyes, and she heard his voice clearly in her mind. "That son of a bitch  
beats his kid." The image that quickly followed originated in her own  
imagination: Mulder walking in on Bert Gundersen in the act of abusing  
his son, going ballistic, and... 

He wouldn't...would he? 

Scully slid cautiously to her feet, pulling her own weapon at the same  
time. Protocol dictated that she should call for immediate backup if  
shots were fired - but what if her partner had been the one firing? One  
more incident, one misstep, and Kersh would have the excuse he needed to  
bury Mulder. If Mulder had screwed up, she owed it to him to try and fix  
things without involving others. Besides, Robbie was in there too. 

Scully pushed the door open a crack and peered into the dim interior.  
She could sense nothing, no movement and no voices. "Mulder?" she  
called. "Are you all right?" 

Silence. So deep it was tangible. Where the heck were the animals,  
anyway? Wasn't a barn supposed to have horses or cows or something in  
it? She was ready to pull out her cell phone when Robbie's voice, high  
and trembling, stopped her. 

"Agent Scully? It's Robbie. We need help in here, there's been an  
accident." 

*Oh God, he's shot Robbie's father* Scully thought, her stomach  
clenching. She started through the doorway, but stopped abruptly. If  
that were true, why wasn't Mulder answering her? Why Robbie? And where  
was Mr. Gundersen? 

"Robbie?" she called, staying just outside the threshold. "What  
happened? Where's Agent Mulder?" 

Silence again for what seemed like minutes but in actuality must have  
been seconds. Then Robbie's voice again, more tearful this time, barely  
clinging to control. "It was an accident, I didn't mean to..." 

His words spurred Scully to action while her mind attempted to make  
sense of them. Robbie caused the shot? Had he somehow gotten Mulder's  
gun? Or perhaps a weapon belonging to his father? She was well aware of  
the statistics regarding accidents with handguns. 

She moved fully into the barn, her weapon still in hand but lowered. She  
hadn't taken more than five steps when Bert Gundersen's voice stopped  
her. 

"Stop there, Agent Scully." 

He moved catlike out of the shadows, a Sig Saur that looked suspiciously  
like Mulder's pointed at her head. A moment later Robbie moved to stand  
beside his father, face tearstained, eyes haunted. 

Gundersen continued toward her, and Scully was struck by the profound  
change in the man. This was not the simple farmer she'd met earlier.  
This man moved with the confident grace of someone well versed in the  
use of weapons. He smiled at her startled expression. 

"What's the matter, Agent Scully? Haven't you heard the expression  
'never judge a book by its cover?' Now put your gun on the floor very  
slowly and kick it over to me. I've already shot one of you, so I have  
nothing left to lose." 

Scully complied with his orders, her mind reeling. He'd said shot, not  
killed. Did that mean Mulder was still alive? She resisted the impulse  
to blurt out the question, instead taking a deep breath to calm her  
jangling nerves. 

"Why are you doing this? Where is my partner?" she asked when she knew  
her voice would remain steady. Gundersen calmly checked her for  
concealed weapons, divesting her of the cell phone in the process. 

"Your partner stumbled onto that," he gestured at the stack of crates  
Mulder had noticed earlier, "while trying to advise me on how to raise  
my own son. As for where he is - I'll be happy to show you," Gundersen  
sneered. "Robbie, lead Agent Scully to Agent Mulder. I'll be right  
behind you." 

Robbie looked at Scully imploringly, and for the first time she noticed  
the darkening bruise on his cheek. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully, I..." 

"This is the last time I'm going to tell you, Robert," his father cut  
in, voice quiet but deadly. "Shut the hell up and do as you're told." 

Robbie turned quickly and led Scully to the back of the barn and an open  
trap door in the dirt floor. A ladder led down into a cellar, dimly lit.  
Robbie descended, and Scully followed him carefully. Her captor came  
down one handed, skillfully keeping the gun trained on her. 

Scully turned to scan the large room and practically tripped over her  
partner. Mulder lay crumpled on the floor near the foot of the ladder,  
half on his side, half on his back, with his left arm twisted beneath  
him. What captured Scully's gaze and caused her breath to catch in her  
throat, however, was not the fact that he had obviously been dropped  
from above. It was the dark red puddle soaking into the earth beneath  
him. 

She immediately dropped to her knees beside him, her physician's eyes  
noting that the back of his white dress shirt was intact. She rolled him  
as gently as possible onto his back to assess his injury. In spite of  
her care, her actions caused him to moan in pain, and his closed eyes  
fluttered open. 

"Scully." 

It was more of a whisper than anything, her name only distinguishable by  
the movement of his lips. Scully flashed him one of the 1000 watt smiles  
she hoarded for extreme circumstances - like when he'd finally awakened  
in a hospital in Dead Horse, Alaska, proving he'd cheated death one more  
time. *Do it again, Mulder. Once more for old time's sake.* 

"Hey," she said aloud, unbuttoning his shirt and moving the fabric aside  
to expose the wound on his chest. She couldn't stop herself from  
momentarily closing her eyes at what she revealed. 

"Bad." 

Scully met her partner's gaze, glassy with pain but lucid. "Pretty bad,"  
she agreed softly. "I've seen worse, though." 

"Corpses..don't count." 

She tried to chuckle, but it caught painfully in a throat suddenly tight  
with emotion. That he could joke while in what must be incredible  
pain... She was overwhelmed by the sheer courage of the man. 

Scully had almost forgotten about Robbie and his father, so intent was  
she on Mulder's condition, but they were brought sharply back to her  
awareness when Bert slipped what looked like a handcuff attached to a  
chain around her ankle. The other end of the chain he locked securely  
around a thick iron pipe that ran along one wall, slipping the keys into  
his pocket. 

He turned to his son. "Robbie, go back to the house. I'll be there in a  
few minutes." 

Robbie hesitated only a moment this time before nodding and climbing up  
the ladder. When he reached the top he turned back to look down at  
Scully and Mulder. He seemed about to speak, but his father turned  
slowly to look up at him, his face as dark as the earth beneath their  
feet. 

"Now." 

Robbie left. 

While Bert dealt with Robbie, Scully took the opportunity to remove her  
jacket and fold it into a square that she laid over Mulder's chest,  
pressing firmly with both hands. Mulder moaned again, unable to stop the  
sound from leaving his lips in spite of his wish to remain stoic in  
front of their captor. 

Gundersen shook his head. "One more day. One more lousy day and those  
crates would have been gone and none of this would have happened. Now as  
soon as those crates get picked up I'll have to relocate. All because an  
FBI agent didn't know when to mind his own business." 

"Sorry to...inconvenience you," Mulder said weakly. 

"Only a minor setback. Don't flatter yourself." 

"What about us?" Scully asked quietly. 

"Contrary to what you might think, I'm not a murderer, Agent Scully.  
You've just left me with very few choices," Gundersen said, holding out  
his hand, palm up in a "what can you do?" gesture. 

"I have no intention of causing you or Agent Mulder any further harm. In  
fact, once those, uh, supplies are picked up and Robbie and I get out of  
here, I'll even give the authorities an anonymous call and tell them  
where to find you. You'll be out of here in 24 hours - 48 at the  
outside." 

"See Scully? And you said he didn't have a heart," Mulder whispered. 

Ignoring Mulder's attempt at whistling in the dark, Scully concentrated  
on keeping her voice level. "Mulder doesn't have that long, Gundersen.  
You know that. He needs medical treatment now. He needs a hospital." 

"'Fraid he'll have to make do with you," Gundersen replied cheerfully.  
He turned and began ascending the ladder, pausing at the top to call  
back down to them. 

"Oh, Agent Scully? I wouldn't waste my energy trying to escape. Those  
pipes go thirty feet down into the ground, no one's going to hear you  
scream, and there'll be a padlock on this trapdoor. Concentrate on your  
partner - he's going to need all the help you can give." 

The trapdoor slammed shut, the faint click of a lock snapping into  
place, and then silence. 


	2. Chapter 2

Inside the cellar  
Gundersen farm  
Tuesday 3:57 p.m.

For a moment after Gundersen's departure Scully remained motionless,  
despair settling over her like a heavy shroud. Her intellect knew that  
she was allowing the man's words to rob her of any vestiges of hope,  
yet feeling anything but defeat at this point seemed unrealistic. A  
half-hearted tug on the chain around her ankle did nothing to raise  
her spirits. It seemed the only course of action was inaction -- to  
hope Bert Gundersen meant what he said about calling the authorities.  
It was a long shot at best, but just maybe Mulder could hang on...

"Bet that rat-trap motel's looking pretty good now."

Scully looked down at her partner, aware that his attempt at humor was  
meant to counter the black mood he'd sensed from her. As she struggled  
to offer him a weak smile, she was busily cataloguing Mulder's  
condition. The bleeding from the chest wound had slowed a little under  
the pressure of her hands, but her jacket was already becoming  
saturated with his blood. His respiration was shallow and slightly  
labored. His normally bronze coloring had gone a pasty white and his  
skin was cool and clammy, though a fine sheen of perspiration had  
broken out on his brow and upper lip. Shock, her doctor's brain  
diagnosed dispassionately, even as she felt the fragile hope she'd  
begun to construct come crashing down around her.

*Forty-eight hours? It'll be a miracle if he lasts twelve!*

"You knocking these fine accommodations, Mulder?" she said lightly,  
searching the room for something to put under his legs to elevate  
them. A half empty bag of feed was within reach and the right size.  
Though Scully tried to shift Mulder's position as gently as possible,  
he stiffened and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Sorry," Scully murmured. She used her thumb to wipe away the drop of  
blood, then ran her hands soothingly through his hair to push it off  
his sweaty forehead.

"'S okay," Mulder replied, and after a moment added, "Sorry, Scully."

"For what, Mulder?" Scully continued her stroking, unsure if its  
purpose was to soothe her partner or herself. "For being right? For  
trying to stop that animal from brutalizing his son? Or for stumbling  
onto the fact that Bert Gundersen has an illegal hobby?"

"For getting you into another mess. For always being a little too  
slow...or a little too naÔve...or a little too self-absorbed to stop  
you from being hurt," Mulder said hoarsely, his words punctuated by  
small gasps for breath. "Your brother...is right."

Scully rolled her eyes. "I love my brother, Mulder. That does not keep  
me from recognizing that he is an ass."

A startled chuckle of delight burst from Mulder, but quickly became a  
violent cough. Scully could only hold his hand and watch impotently  
until the spasms subsided. And though her own chest constricted with  
horror when a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, she  
calmly wiped it away with the sleeve of her blouse and said nothing.

Mulder panted, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, for several minutes.  
Just as Scully was about to ask if he was still with her, he opened  
them.

"'m still sorry," he whispered.

"I know," she said, her thumb tracing small circles on the back of his  
hand. She hesitated, then added, "Mulder, I want to ask you a  
question. If you don't want to answer, I promise I'll understand."

"Boxers."

Scully snorted, pursing her lips to reduce the full-blown grin to a  
smirk and arching an eyebrow. It was an unspoken game between them --  
Mulder firing off jokes, she pretending not to be amused. "You think  
that's a revelation, Mulder?"

"How did I know."

Scully nodded. "I saw what you saw -- but I didn't."

Mulder's eyes skittered away from hers and refused to return. "You've  
heard the old saying, Scully. Takes one to know one." His voice was  
husky with repressed pain, but she would have bet it wasn't from the  
gunshot wound. Then his eyes abruptly ceased their wandering and  
locked back onto hers. Accusing. Rebuking. Imploring. "But you already  
knew that, didn't you?"

Scully's voice was feather-soft. "I guess I've always suspected." *Of  
course you have. Oddly enough, that's why you didn't believe him about  
Gundersen. You thought he was projecting himself onto Robbie.*

Mulder closed his eyes and turned his head. She assumed the  
conversation was ended, and found a portion of her was relieved. She  
was more than a little startled when he continued to speak. In his  
voice she heard countless broken dreams, countless unshed tears,  
countless wounds never healed.

"My father was never a warm person. He didn't hug or kiss -- well,  
except for Sam." The corners of Mulder's lips turned up. "Hard not to  
when she'd fling herself onto your lap and throw her arms around your  
neck."

Scully tried to swallow the lump that formed in her throat at his  
words. She recalled Teena Mulder's cool aloofness only too clearly.  
Those exuberant little sister hugs and kisses were undoubtedly the  
only ones Mulder received when growing up. She couldn't help but  
compare her own childhood in a home where physical affection was doled  
out liberally and often.

"But after Sam was...taken, things...fell apart. Dad started drinking  
heavily. Started the minute he came through the door after work.  
Didn't stop 'til he'd passed out in the chair in front of the TV. He'd  
always been tough on me...high expectations. But it got so...was  
impossible to measure up. Nothing was enough."

"At first..tried to please him. Thought if I was good enough...good  
enough student, good enough athlete, good enough son...he'd stop  
hurting so much. Thought I could make it up to him. Thought he'd  
forgive me."

A single tear slipped out of the corner of Mulder's still closed eyes  
and ran down until it disappeared in his hair. Scully resisted the  
urge to wipe away the residual moisture, unwilling to risk Mulder  
claming up. Instead, she continued stroking the hand she held.

"'f I made dinner it was overcooked. 'f I brought home A  
minus..shoulda been an A. 'f I made ten baskets, shoulda been  
fifteen."

"Your mother...?"

"Crawled into a valium bottle and didn't come out." Mulder opened eyes  
that had turned a slate gray color, and looked pleadingly into  
Scully's blue ones. "She's never been a strong person, Scully. Dad  
wasn't exactly...supportive."

Scully bit back the retort that wanted to leave her mouth. Somehow she  
didn't believe Teena Mulder was as fragile as her son seemed to think.

"When your dad got angry, did he...?"

Another small smile touched her partner's lips, but this one was  
sardonic rather than gentle. "Depended how many drinks he'd had. After  
a few...he'd use words. 'F he'd had a lot...fists. Once I figured  
out...couldn't please him...tried to avoid him. Didn't like walkin' on  
eggshells...waitin' for next explosion. Always tried to be somewhere  
else."

"Like Robbie."

Mulder nodded, but winced in pain. His breathing had become more  
labored and he was forming words with more difficulty, speech slurred.  
"Had to try...stop it, Scully. Times I...given anything...someone on  
my side."

He broke into another series of harsh coughs that sounded alarmingly  
wet to Scully's trained ear. Fresh blood trickled down his chin and  
she used her sleeve again, ignoring the feel of the warm stickiness  
against her wrist. It was obvious his lung had been compromised,  
either by the bullet itself or a broken rib. The pneumothorax would  
build until he was no longer able to take in sufficient oxygen, and  
then... 

"Gotta help me out here, Mulder," she said, gently stroking  
his forehead. "You still with me? We've got to elevate your head so  
you can breathe easier. You can lean against me."

Mulder opened his eyes, but they were vague and unfocused. "Donwanna  
wrestle."

Scully favored him with a grin in spite of the tears that flooded her  
eyes. "And I don't want to sing. Now on the count of three, we're  
going to sit you up and I'll pull you against me, okay?"

It was a made to order opening for some of Mulder's innuendo, and  
Scully's crushing sense of fear only increased when he didn't bite.

"Mulder?"

"'Kay."

"One. Two. Three!"

Scully fully expected Mulder to moan in pain as she grasped him  
beneath both arms and hauled him upright as gently as possible.  
Instead she watched in eerie silence as the little bit of color he had  
left drained from his face and his eyes rolled back in his head.  
Scully struggled not to lose her grip on what was now 165 pounds of  
boneless Mulder. By the time she'd dragged him over to where she could  
lean against the wall and gotten him satisfactorily cradled in her  
arms, she was panting almost as severely as he was.

Exhausted, she raised a shaking hand to his throat, relieved to find  
his pulse relatively steady, though very weak. The bleeding, which had  
slowed considerably, increased from the movement. The best she could  
do about that was to refold her jacket and once again press it firmly  
against the wound. Mulder whimpered but didn't awaken.

"Shhh," Scully murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead and trying  
not to dwell on the fact that it was beginning to feel warm. Too warm.

"It's going to be all right, Mulder. You're going to make it out of  
this, I promise. This time you have someone on your side."

 

In the cellar  
Tuesday 9:36 p.m.

Everything hurt. It was really unfair, Mulder thought blearily. Being  
shot in the chest should make your chest hurt -- that was a given. But  
right now every hair on his head hurt, and that just didn't make  
sense. Not to mention the fact that his casual desire for a drink had  
turned into an obsession that eclipsed all thought. How many times had  
he blithely said, "I'm dying of thirst!" after a basketball game? It  
appeared he was going to do just that -- if the blood loss, oxygen  
deprivation, and infection didn't get him first.

The fever was worse. His eyeballs felt as if they were being fried in  
his skull, and although he was pretty lucid at the moment, things  
slipped sideways into strange dreams where the walls crawled with  
giant roaches and Scully's face morphed into that of his sister.

Scully slept, the arms that encircled him limp and her breathing deep  
and even. As miserable as he was, being held by Scully almost made it  
worthwhile. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. But it did feel  
right, bringing him a peace somewhere deep inside his soul that the  
physical torments couldn't touch.

Not for the first time, Mulder wondered what it would be like to be  
held by Scully without bleeding from a gunshot wound or burning up  
with fever. They'd come so close in his hallway before one tiny insect  
completely derailed things. Why had they never resumed that  
conversation? The one time he'd tried she'd dismissed his words, sure  
he was stoned on pain medication. Well, maybe he had been, but it had  
only served to lower his inhibitions.

Scully was a different story. At times Mulder was certain she shared  
his feelings. She'd stood by him through some of the most horrific  
experiences a human being could endure -- her abduction, the murder of  
her sister, her bout with cancer, Emily...

But that was part of the problem, wasn't it? Though he saw the way she  
sometimes looked at him when she thought he didn't notice, and though  
her personal life was as suspiciously lacking in significant others as  
his was, it all came down to one very simple question. What did Scully  
deserve? The answer was equally simple -- so much more than Fox Mulder.  
In spite of Scully's words, Mulder knew deep down inside that her  
brother had hit the proverbial nail on the head. He was one sorry son  
of a bitch.

Things became fuzzy around the edges again, and he'd almost slipped  
back into a doze, when Mulder heard a soft, scuffling noise overhead,  
followed by the rattling of the trap door. He struggled to sit up  
without thinking, and paid for his folly when white-hot pain tore  
across his chest and down his right arm. At the moan of pain that was  
wrenched from his lips, Scully startled awake. She instinctively sat  
bolt upright, which shifted his body enough to provoke a second wave  
of pain. Black spots filled his vision and a loud ringing obliterated  
all sound as he clutched at consciousness. Gradually the spots receded  
to reveal Scully's face, creased with worry. Her lips were moving, but  
the ringing in his ears made it impossible to hear what she was  
saying. He blinked sluggishly, slowed his frantic pants for air, and  
her voice broke through incrementally, as if someone had turned up a  
knob controlling her volume.

"...hear me? You're scaring me, Mulder, I need you to answer me."

"'M okay, Scully," he said, the words raspy and barely audible. "'M  
fine."

Both eyebrows arched at his blatant lie, but she smiled and her hand  
cupped his cheek. Then her expression sobered and she glanced to their  
left. "We've got company."

Mulder followed her gaze. Robbie stood at the foot of the ladder, one  
hand still clutching a rung. He glanced up at the trap door and then  
back at the agents, his eyes coming to rest on Mulder. The bruise on  
his cheek had turned an ugly mixture of black and purple, and now his  
lower lip was split and swollen as well.

"Robbie." Mulder tried to lick his lips, but couldn't generate enough  
moisture. "You all right?"

The boy nodded, ducking his head in shame. "Don't worry about me. Dad  
would never really hurt me."

"What do you call that?" Scully said incredulously, indicating his  
lip.

"Scully. Don't," Mulder said quietly, squeezing her hand for emphasis.  
"Where's...father?" he asked Robbie.

"He went out, I don't know where. I wanted to make sure you were  
okay."

Mulder could feel the anxiety and anger running through Scully, though  
her voice revealed nothing. "He isn't all right, Robbie. He won't be  
all right unless he gets to a hospital."

Robbie's face crumpled at her words, but brightened an instant later.  
"I brought you some stuff that should help."

He removed a large pack from his back, dropped it on the floor, and  
crouched down beside it. He carefully pulled out the contents and  
stacked them within Scully's reach: a first aid kit, two towels, a  
blanket, three bottles of water and some granola bars.

"Don't suppose there's a gun or a cell phone in there," Scully  
muttered under her breath.

"Give 'im a break," Mulder chided her, barely able to tear his eyes  
from the water. "Thanks, Robbie."

Scully was less charitable. "It isn't enough, Robbie. You have to get  
us out of here. At least unlock this chain."

Panic took over Robbie's face. "I can't. My father has the key. I only  
got in here because he doesn't realize I know the combination for the  
padlock!"

"Then bring me my cell phone -- or call the police yourself!" Scully  
pushed harder. "You owe it to Agent Mulder to try, you're part of the  
reason he's laying here..."

"Shut up, Scully!" Mulder spat out the words furiously, only to  
collapse as he was wracked with round after round of the hateful  
coughs, blood splattering the floor as he doubled over. Scully's arms  
tightened as she tried to support his ribs as much as possible.

When they finally ceased, he could only collapse bonelessly against  
her, panting and blinking back involuntary tears of pain. He felt  
something at his lips, and then something deliciously cool and wet  
slipped into his mouth, obliterating the coppery taste of blood.  
Mulder swallowed greedily, but after two gulps the bottle was pulled  
away. He couldn't stop the small whimper of distress.

"Easy, Mulder. Too fast and you'll never keep it down."

He managed a slight nod, and after a brief respite she allowed him a  
few more swallows. Robbie was babbling in the background.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully, I'm so sorry! I know this is my fault."

To Scully's amazement, Mulder managed to respond. "NO, Robbie! Not  
your fault."

With a pang of regret, Scully realized why her partner had reacted so  
violently to her words. Like Mulder, the last thing Robbie needed was  
to be assigned blame. He was good enough at doing that to himself.

"Mulder's right. It's not your fault, Robbie. Your father is the  
guilty one. You know what's in those crates is wrong. You know the way  
he treats you is wrong. You can stop it, Robbie."

"You think you understand, but you don't," Robbie said, wringing the  
straps of the pack in his hands. "He wasn't always this way. Three  
years ago a drunk driver killed my mother. The man barely spent six  
months in jail. My dad went crazy. He blames the government for not  
punishing that man."

"And you?" Scully asked quietly.

Robbie's hands stilled. "He blames me because she was coming to pick  
me up. If it weren't for me, she never would have been in the wrong  
place at the wrong time."

"He has no right, Robbie," Scully said, but though she was looking at  
the boy, her small hand squeezed Mulder's. "I don't care how much pain  
he's in, he shouldn't be taking it out on you. He's supposed to  
protect you, not brutalize you."

"You don't understand! He used to be a good man. I'm sure he can be  
again if I just give him time and make him proud of me!" Tears spilled  
from Robbie's eyes and ran unchecked down his cheeks, reducing him  
from a teenager to a small boy. "Maybe he's not perfect, but he's my  
father and I love him. If I call the police to help you, they'll put  
him in jail. I can't betray him like that."

"You don't...have to," Mulder said, the forceful statement he'd  
intended coming out as little more than a breathy whisper. "Go. He  
finds you here...you'll catch hell." He locked his eyes on Robbie's,  
allowing the boy to see his own pain. "I understand."

Robbie swiped the tears impatiently from his eyes and returned  
Mulder's gaze, comprehension gradually replacing confusion. "Sorry,"  
he whispered, and turned quickly to ascend the ladder. A moment later  
the trap door slammed shut.

Mulder sagged back against Scully, the slight adrenaline rush from  
Robbie's appearance completely depleted, feeling like a rag doll. The  
pain in his chest was crushing, he was exhausted from fighting for  
each breath, and his body once again decided it was cold. Feeling him  
shiver, Scully snagged the blanket and pulled it around him.

"I need to clean and bandage the wound," she said, gesturing to the  
first aid kit.

"Jus' gimme a minute," Mulder said, words slurred by a tongue that  
felt thick and clumsy.

"No problem," Scully replied tenderly, holding the bottle of water  
back to his lips so that he could manage a few more swallows. Her hand  
moved to his sweaty brow and stroked the hair back, her fingers  
feather-light. Mulder couldn't stop his eyes from drooping as her  
touch soothed the pain just a little. He'd begun to drift off when  
her voice, heavy with tears, brought him back.

"We need Robbie to make that call, Mulder. You need it."

Mulder blinked, and looked up into her beautiful eyes, seeing grief  
and...something else. *She does love me* he thought with something  
that bordered on amazement. And on the heels of that: *I'm hurting her  
again.*

"Can't," he said, straining to get the word past his lips. "Won't  
sacrifice Robbie...to save myself."

Scully didn't speak as single tear, a perfect crystalline drop,  
slipped down her pale cheek. She simply leaned over to brush her mouth  
against his. No words were necessary. She resumed her gentle stroking,  
and Mulder let her touch and the memory of her kiss carry him away.

 

In the cellar  
Wednesday 4:30 a.m.

Scully carefully poured more water onto the towel and used it to bathe  
Mulder's face. His skin was hot and dry to her touch, and he'd been  
completely unresponsive for the last half-hour. She almost missed the  
fever dreams that had plagued him earlier -- at least they were a sign  
of life. Now even his respirations had become quieter, at times the  
shallow breaths barely causing the rise and fall of his chest.

She talked to him anyway. Determined to tether him to life in any way  
that she could, Scully kept up a running patter of words coupled with  
touches. Stories from her childhood, mostly. With four kids in a  
family there were plenty of stories to tell. Especially when one of  
them was a free spirit like Melissa.

"...So I let Missy talk me into keeping eye shadow and mascara in our  
lockers. We'd leave the house looking like the fresh-faced Catholic  
girls that Ahab expected us to be, only to hit the bathroom as soon as  
we got to school. Then we'd wash it all off before we left at the end  
of the day and return home with no one the wiser.

"Of course, we were doomed from the start. I don't know why Missy ever  
thought I could pull it off, since I've always been a terrible liar.  
But you know that, don't you?"

Scully paused, gazing at Mulder's still face and half expecting a  
response. When there was none, she sighed and continued. "It was pure  
chance that tripped us up. One day, just before lunch, Missy and I  
were called to the office. Ahab was waiting for us. My grandmother had  
fallen and broken her hip. Mom had sent him to pick all of us kids up  
from school so that we could make the three-hour drive to be with her.  
I'll never forget the look on his face when we walked through the  
doorway. He never said a word, just signed us out and walked us to the  
car. I was sure once we were behind closed doors Missy and I would get  
the full force of his anger, but he just looked really sad. And he  
said four words that I never forgot, that hurt worse than any  
spanking. 'You let me down.'

"I promised myself at that moment that I'd never hear him say those  
words again."

Scully pressed the towel to Mulder's forehead with her left hand,  
gently stroking his cheek with the backs of the fingers on her right.  
"I never realized just how lucky I was. No matter what I did, I always  
knew I had my parents' love. It should have been the same for you,  
Mulder. If...when we get out of here, I promise to make it up to you  
as best I can. To show you that you deserve happiness just as much as  
Robbie does. To stop being afraid to tell you just how much I love  
you..."

Scully's voice trailed off and she listened intently, suddenly certain  
she'd heard a sound from above. Her suspicions were confirmed a moment  
later when the trap door opened and a pair of sneaker clad feet  
appeared. Robbie stood at the bottom of the ladder, eyeing her warily  
a moment later.

"What do you want, Robbie?" Scully asked, her voice gentler than her  
words.

"Dad's asleep. I wanted to see if you needed anything before he wakes  
up. They'll be coming for those crates later this morning, and then he  
says we're leaving the farm. He promised me we'd send you some help  
once we're far enough away." Robbie's eyes were pleading, begging her  
to believe him.

"We don't need anything, Robbie. Nothing you can give, anyway," Scully  
replied dully.

"But Agent Mulder..."

"Agent Mulder is dying, Robbie!" Scully snapped, unable to feel regret  
even when he flinched as if she'd slapped him. "There's nothing more  
you or I can do for him. It may be there's nothing more anyone can  
do."

Robbie shuffled hesitantly closer, his eyes glued on Mulder's pale  
face. When he reached Scully's side he knelt down, taking in the  
bloodstained bandage and Mulder's shallow breathing. His hand raised  
slightly as if he were about to touch her partner, but then dropped  
back to his side.

"Why?" he murmured, and Scully wasn't sure if the word was directed at  
her or himself. His gaze never left Mulder's still body. "Why didn't  
he try to make me call the police?"

Before she could begin to think of a response, Robbie turned his gaze  
to her. For the first time she was struck by how much his eyes  
reminded her of Mulder's. Not the color -- Robbie's were a dark brown  
that bore no resemblance to Mulder's ever-changing hazel. No, it was  
something much less tangible. A weariness that went far beyond his  
years coupled with a sadness that said things weren't going to change.

"He said that he understood. He was like me once, wasn't he?"

Scully felt her anger at the boy drain away. She managed a slight  
smile, though it only touched her lips. In her heart she was wailing  
with grief at the injustice of a world that could treat fragile souls  
with such disregard. She wanted to punish Bert Gundersen, Bill Mulder,  
and all those like them who managed to take a bright, sensitive,  
compassionate child and instill feelings of self-deprecation rather  
than self-worth. But all she could do was answer, turning back to  
continue stroking Mulder's cheek.

"More than you'll ever know, Robbie."

 

In the cellar  
Wednesday 8:00 a.m.

Scully hadn't dared to hope that Mulder would regain consciousness,  
but as usual, he remained unpredictable. She'd woken from a light  
doze, her cheek resting on the crown of his head, to find that her  
left arm had fallen asleep from the pressure of his body. In spite of  
the fact that he'd shown no signs of awareness for hours, she'd tried  
to be gentle as she shifted his torso to the right.

And almost dropped him when he moaned.

"Mulder? Can you hear me? Come on, Partner, open those pretty eyes for  
me."

No response at first, but then his eyelids fluttered and his tongue  
snaked out to moisten dry, chapped lips. Scully held the water bottle  
for him, and to her delight he managed a swallow, though much of it  
dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

"Timizit?" he mumbled, managing keep his eyes open, though only at  
half-mast.

"It's about eight o'clock. Wednesday morning," she added when she saw  
the bewilderment on his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Rode hard 'n put away wet," he panted, trying to look up at her, but  
failing. His eyes looked sunken, and for the first time she noticed  
the slight bluish tinge to his lips. She threaded her fingers through  
his and brought them to her lips for a soft kiss, surreptitiously  
checking the nail beds. Also blue. His blood oxygen level must be  
dangerously low.

"You kind of checked out on me there for awhile," she said lightly,  
lowering their hands but continuing to hold his. "Glad you decided to  
rejoin me."

Mulder didn't reply for several minutes. The harshness of his  
breathing seemed magnified by the absence of other sounds, and she could  
feel how hard his muscles were working just to draw in the pitiful  
amount of air he was receiving.

"Wasted time," he finally managed, regret plain in his tone. "Shoulda  
toldya. Now 's too late."

"You did tell me, Mulder. Anyway, I already knew."

"Damn bee."

Scully almost smiled at that. The corners of her mouth valiantly tried  
to curve upward, but one look at his face stopped them. "I love you,  
Mulder," she said instead, her voice fierce. "I was afraid in that  
hospital room, but I'm not any more. It isn't too late. Once we get  
out of here.."

His expression made the words catch in her throat.

"Mulder? Don't look like that! Don't you even think about ditching me,  
do you hear me? We are going to get out of this, just like every other  
time. You just have to hold on."

Mulder's eyes squeezed tightly shut, but she was still able to see the  
moisture that sparkled on his lashes. "Donwanna ditchya, Scully. Just  
so tired of hurting. Just wannit to go 'way."

Scully couldn't stop the sob that tore out of her chest or the  
torrent of tears that followed. All she could do was hold him tightly,  
rocking gently back and forth. "I know. I'm so sorry, Mulder. I know  
it hurts."

She'd regained some semblance of control and Mulder had begun to drift  
off again, when the silence was broken by a loud pop, followed by two  
more in rapid succession. Gunshots. Scully strained to catch any  
further sounds, and was sure she heard faint voices moments later.

"Did you hear that, Mulder? Someone's up there, and I don't think  
Gundersen or his cronies would be firing those guns. Mulder?"

His body was heavy and limp in her arms, animated only by rapid,  
shallow pants for air. Scully struggled to move him so that she could  
stand, and was terrified when he uttered no sounds of pain or protest.  
She elevated his head as best she could with the sack of grain and  
paused to cup his hot cheek in her hand, the stubble of beard rough  
under her fingertips.

"Don't go, Mulder. Please."

Staggering upright, fighting the pins and needles in her legs and  
feet, she wrapped her fingers around the rough spindle of the ladder  
rung. The hateful chain around her ankle would only allow her to climb  
the first two. Over her head, through the plywood of the trap door,  
she heard a cacophony of noise and motion. Shouts, running feet, and  
then another gunshot. Scully ducked instinctively, then straightened  
when she realized her foolishness. Above, all was now silent.

Her heart leaped into her throat. They couldn't leave! Whoever they  
were -- somebody, anybody was better than nobody. Time had run out for  
Mulder. It was now or never.

"Hey!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs. "Help! We need help!"

She lifted her clenched fist as high above her head as she could  
reach, desperate to pound on the wooden door. Normally not one to  
bemoan her small stature, she cursed it now. Her fist didn't come  
close to reaching its target, and the chain around her ankle was  
cruelly unyielding as it bit into the tender flesh.

Scully had just reached the point where her dry throat could no longer  
support the volume of her cries when she heard voices approaching.

"...something over here. Kid said there was a cellar around here  
somewhere."

"Over here!" Scully called frantically. The sound of rattling  
indicated someone tugging on the padlock, then at last she heard the  
sweet sound of another voice speaking to her.

"Hang on down there. We're getting a pair of bolt cutters."

"I'm a federal agent! My partner's been shot and he needs help!"  
Scully called.

"The kid told us. EMTs are standing by."

The knot in the pit of Scully's stomach loosened just a bit at the  
words, and she backed carefully down the ladder and returned to  
Mulder's side. "Help is here, Mulder," she said, reaching for his  
hand...

Only to gasp, blood draining from her face.

Mulder's lips no longer held a bluish cast -- they were blue. The short  
breaths he'd been taking had ceased, his chest now silent and still. A  
small trickle of blood ran from one corner of his mouth.

"Oh God, no. NO!" Scully wailed, flinging herself to the ground beside  
him laying her head on his chest. No heartbeat. "Damn it, Mulder, I  
said no ditching!" she said, choking on tears barely held at bay.

She grasped his chin, firmly tilting his head back and opening his  
mouth to check for any obstructions. Pinching his nose shut she sealed  
his lips with her own, refusing to let her mind acknowledge the taste  
of blood. She followed several breaths with some chest compressions,  
wincing at the thought of broken ribs. Then back to breathe for him. A  
corner of her mind registered that his chest was not expanding  
properly due to the pneumothorax, but she ruthlessly pushed the  
thought aside. She was concentrating so hard on the CPR that she never  
heard the rescuers until they were down the ladder and standing at her  
side.

A hand touched her shoulder and she looked up into the faces of a  
policeman and two EMTs carrying their medical equipment. "He's not  
breathing," she said unnecessarily, and reluctantly allowed herself to  
be moved aside so they could take over. "Gunshot wound to the upper  
right quadrent resulting in massive blood loss and a probable  
pneumothorax -- his breathing was progressively deteriorating before he  
arrested. Due to the unfavorable conditions he's also developed a  
significant infection of the wound. I'm a doctor," she added when the  
technicians exchanged surprised looks.

And then she could only sag against the dirt wall, unable to take her  
eyes from the flurry of activity, while everything possible was done  
to save Mulder's life.

 

St. Joseph's Hospital  
Wichita  
Wednesday 11:52 a.m.

Scully was long past tired. She huddled at one end of the  
uncomfortable couch in the waiting room, too exhausted to feel annoyed  
at the way her cheek stuck to the plastic. They'd whisked Mulder into  
surgery over two hours ago, and she'd yet to hear anything. She'd  
given up pestering the nurses, retaining enough reason to realize that  
they had no news to give her. The only good thing to happen so far was  
that the family of the only other surgical patient, an appendectomy,  
had left fifteen minutes earlier. They'd been a noisy bunch, but for  
some reason had given Scully a wide berth.

Everyone had been so kind. Doug Barrett and Eric Caplan, the two EMTs  
who had literally brought Mulder back from death not once but three  
times, had stopped by on their way back to the station, promising to  
call for an update on Mulder's condition. Her carefully constructed  
mask of medical detachment had deserted her at their kindness, leaving  
her barely able to speak around the lump in her throat.

The nurses had weathered her explosions of impatience with calm  
reassurances of the quality of the hospital's care and the skill of  
the surgeon. They'd brought her cups of coffee and accepted her  
refusal to leave the waiting area, even to get cleaned up.

Even Stan Bishop, the cop who'd brought the EMTs for Mulder, had  
discretely left her alone, consenting to return later for her  
statement.

Now Scully just felt numb. So many factors were against Mulder even  
surviving the surgery, let alone long term. The ordeal in the  
ambulance on the way to the hospital had reminded her unpleasantly of  
Alaska, when Mulder had nearly died of the retrovirus. At least then  
he'd only crashed once. At least then she'd had something to do, a  
part in insuring his survival. In the ambulance she'd been a helpless  
observer.

She closed her eyes against the tears that threatened, but heard the  
door to the waiting room open and the sound of purposeful footsteps  
striding toward her. Since the doctor would have come from the doors  
leading to the operating theatres, Scully left her eyes closed and  
silently willed the intruder to go away and leave her alone.

"Agent Scully?"

At the sound of the familiar voice her eyes flew open in shock. She  
struggled to stand, unconsciously reaching up to tuck her disheveled  
hair behind her ears. "Sir..."

A surprisingly gentle hand on her shoulder stopped her before she  
could rise, and Skinner took a seat beside her instead. "Don't get up,  
Scully. You look like you've been through hell."

"I didn't expect... Sir, you were ordered to break off all contact  
with us."

"Vacation time, Scully. The Bureau doesn't own my personal life -- yet  
anyway."

Scully meant to grin at his wry words but was horrified to find her  
eyes flooding with tears instead. She pressed the backs of her fingers  
against her lips in a futile attempt to hold in a sob, which broke  
free anyway. Before she quite realized what was happening, Skinner had  
slipped his muscular arm around her slight frame and her head was  
resting on his broad shoulder.

"Let it out, Scully," he said softly. "God knows you deserve to."

And at his words the wave of emotion that she'd tenuously kept at bay  
for the last twenty-four hours crashed over her and knocked her  
completely off her feet. The sobs that wracked her were frightening in  
their intensity, but unable to be denied. The revelation of Mulder's  
childhood abuse, his physical torment, her own impotence as she  
watched him inexorably slipping away -- each a building block in a  
tower of grief that had finally come tumbling down.

And Skinner just sat there while she soaked his shirt with her tears,  
silently rubbing her shoulder. When she'd finally tapered off to an  
occasional hiccup, her eyes puffy and red, she knew she should be  
feeling mortified with embarrassment. Yet what she did feel was a  
cathartic kind of relief. Mulder was still clinging to life by his  
fingernails and sheer will, but a great blackness had been purged from  
her heart.

Scully straightened a little reluctantly, and Skinner gave her a brief  
squeeze before removing his arm from her shoulders and gazing at her  
solemnly.

"You okay?"

Scully nodded. "Sorry..."

Skinner cut her off, raising his hand before she could continue. He  
studied her for a moment before handing her a handkerchief and saying,  
"Wait here a minute. I'll be right back."

Scully watched as he strode out the door, surprised by his abrupt  
departure but grateful for a moment to regroup. She dried her eyes and  
blew her nose, but when she started to tuck the handkerchief away in  
her pocket she stiffened. Skinner found her there a moment later, the  
handkerchief forgotten in her lap as she stared, mesmerized, at the  
bloodstains on her hands. Mulder's blood -- in the creases of her  
knuckles, under her fingernails, and on the cuffs of her blouse. There  
were even rusty streaks on the handkerchief where she'd wiped her  
face. No wonder that family had left her alone.

"Scully?"

She bit her lip and looked up at Skinner, dazed. He crossed the room  
to kneel in front of her, and Scully saw he had a pair of pale blue  
scrubs in his hands.

"Scully, I want you to go get cleaned up. The nurses said you can use  
their shower -- it's just down the hall on the right." He placed the  
scrubs in her hands, dark brown eyes showing both compassion and  
concern.

Scully shook her head, unable to shake the oddly disconnected feeling  
that had begun with the sight of Mulder's blood on her hands. "I...I  
can't. This is Mulder's blood," she said, her voice rising. "What if  
it's all I've got left, what if he doesn't make it, if he..."  
*Thiscan'tbehappeningthiscan'tbehappeningthiscan'tbehappening...*

"Scully!"

Skinner pitched his voice deliberately in a "chain of command" tone.  
It worked. Scully's eyes snapped back to focus on his face, and lost  
their blankness.

"Scully," he repeated quietly. "I talked to the nurses. They don't  
expect him out of surgery for at least another hour. You have to take  
care of yourself now. He's going to need you when he wakes up."

Skinner's use of the word "when" and not "if" wasn't lost on Scully.  
She nodded, even managing a weak smile of thanks, and rose to her  
feet. When she reached the door to the hallway, she paused and turned  
back.

"I'll be right here if anything happens," Skinner assured her before  
she could even voice the concern. "I'm not going anywhere."

Scully nodded again, not trusting her voice. It wasn't until she was  
walking down the hallway to the bathroom that it occurred to her -- she  
had no idea how Skinner had known what happened. For the moment, she  
found she really didn't care. They'd come a long way since she'd been  
prepared to name Skinner as the mole within the FBI, and she was a  
little surprised and very grateful to realize she'd come to regard him  
as a friend.

 

St. Joseph's Hospital  
Room 312  
Thursday 5:00 p.m.

Tactile impressions were all Mulder could comprehend at first. The  
softness of a bed rather than a hard dirt floor. The crisp, slightly  
scratchy feel of hospital sheets rather than the silk of Scully's  
blouse under his cheek. The weightless, drifting sensation of really  
good drugs instead of crushing pain.

Gradually sound made its way into his consciousness. Initially a  
confusing jumble, soon they resolved into things he could identify.  
The steady beeping was a heart monitor. The bursts of rapid clicks  
could only be Scully typing on her laptop. And the rumbles, one high  
and one low, must be voices.

None of the words made sense at first, and he was content to just  
drift and let them wash over him. He'd been shot before, and was well  
aware that the pain would eventually return full force, so he let  
himself enjoy the present respite from it.

"...going to tell Kersh?"

"Only the facts relevant to the case." That was Scully's sweet voice,  
and if he'd possessed a little more energy Mulder would have smiled.  
The deeper voice spoke again, and Mulder was amazed to recognize it  
belonged to Skinner.

"Who decides what's relevant?"

"I do, of course." The smirk in Scully's voice was plain.

"You've been with Mulder too long -- you're starting to think like  
him."

"That's a little below the belt, don't you think, sir?"

Both were chuckling now. Mulder began to notice the foul taste in his  
mouth and the sandpaper feel of his throat. Definitely a respirator in  
his not-so-distant past. Time to join the party, if he could just  
force his eyelids to cooperate...

He was able, through sheer determination, to pry his eyes open halfway  
\-- enough to find that he was turned away from Scully. Turning his  
head proved to be a much greater challenge, and he couldn't help a  
small grunt of discomfort at the motion. Scully was immediately at his  
side, laptop discarded and a blinding smile on her face.

"Hey, Partner. Welcome back."

Mulder attempted speech, but it was difficult to talk and keep his  
eyes from slipping shut. What actually came out was, "Wa..."

But, as always, Scully understood. "Not yet, but you can have some ice  
chips."

She spooned a small amount onto his tongue and he let it slowly melt,  
savoring the coolness as it trickled down his abused throat. After two  
more spoonfuls he'd had enough and decided he was ready to dazzle  
Scully with his snappy reparte once more.

"Day?"

"Thursday afternoon -- about five. You got out of surgery about one-  
thirty yesterday afternoon, and you were on a vent up until about  
three hours ago. The doctor thought it best to keep you under until  
then."

Mulder nodded, deciding he liked the doctor already. "Skinner's here?"  
*Wow, up to two words now.*

Skinner moved next to Scully so Mulder could see him. "Didn't we just  
do this Mulder?"

Mulder tried to think of a smart remark, but the cotton in his head  
made it too much effort. Trying to roll his eyes only made them want  
to shut again, so he settled for another question. "How soon...get  
outa here?"

Scully managed to roll her eyes quite expressively. "Mulder, only you  
could be twenty-four hours out of major surgery and ask that. I have  
absolutely no idea." She then launched into a detailed explanation of  
his medical condition and Mulder found it was becoming harder to  
understand her words and taking more and more concentration to master  
those eyelids.

"'kay," he mumbled, wishing she'd stop talking so much and do that  
thing she did with her fingers in his hair.

Scully and Skinner exchanged amused glances at his docile acceptance,  
and he thought he heard Skinner say something about getting a doggy  
bag of whatever drugs he was on.

Scully must have seen he was fighting sleep, because she lowered the  
rail, perched on the side of the bed, and leaned over to place a soft  
kiss on his forehead. He wanted to remind her that Skinner was  
standing behind her, but then she started stroking the hair back from  
his forehead and his eyes slid shut as if on command.

"Sleep, Mulder," he heard her murmur as the clouds rolled in and  
carried him away.

 

Room 312   
Friday 7:00 a.m.

He awoke to more pain, but felt truly lucid this time. Scully was  
nowhere in sight, but Skinner was reading in a recliner beside his  
bed. An Agatha Christie mystery.

"The butler did it," he offered, his voice still little more than a  
croak.

"Now I know why you're with the FBI, Mulder. It's those keen powers of  
deduction. You figure that one out all by yourself?"

While he was speaking Skinner had risen and poured some water into a  
cup. He held the straw to Mulder's lips and he drank gratefully.

"Where's Scully?"

"I made her go back to the hotel and get some sleep. She was dead on  
her feet," Skinner replied.

"Thanks. And not just for Scully. For coming out here when you know  
how much trouble it could bring you."

"As I told Scully, they can't dictate what I do with my personal  
time," he replied. "You and Scully were there for me in the past --  
more than once, as I recall. When I heard you were in trouble..."

"How?" Mulder broke in. His chest throbbed, but he didn't want to zone  
out on painkillers before he got a few answers. "How did you know? How  
did the police know to come to the farm?"

"They came because I sent them," Skinner replied. "And I sent them  
because at about seven o'clock Wednesday morning I received a phone  
call from a very scared young man named..."

"Robbie," Mulder finished.

Skinner nodded, understanding the deep sadness that settled onto  
Mulder's face. Scully had explained a bit about Robbie. He'd learned a  
little from what she'd said, perhaps more from what she didn't say.  
He'd met Mulder's father, and had his own suspicions.

"He found Scully's cell phone and just started trying the  
preprogrammed numbers. Number one was you, of course, and number two  
was Scully's mom. He must have hung up or else gotten her machine.  
Anyway, number three was my office and I happened to be catching up on  
some paperwork. I'm not sure why Scully still had my number programmed  
instead of Kersh..."

"You're someone she trusts," Mulder said quietly. "Doesn't matter  
whether we still report to you or not." He didn't add that Skinner's  
number was still programmed on his own phone as well.

"Robbie figured out I worked with you and he just blurted it all out.  
How you'd stumbled on the guns and his father had shot you. How you  
were locked up and dying in a cellar under the barn. And all the while  
he kept pleading with me to be sure no one hurt his dad. He was  
practically hysterical."

"I didn't think he'd do it," Mulder said, more to himself than to  
Skinner. "I didn't think he could. It must have torn him apart."

"I managed to calm him down and made him promise to stay out of the  
way. Then I called the Wichita police. They'd actually been suspicious  
of illegal activity at that farm for some time. They thought it was  
drugs, though."

"Gundersen's in jail?"

"Yeah. He tried resisting arrest -- actually got off a couple shots,  
but no one was hurt."

"Where's Robbie?"

Skinner could hear so much in those words. Sorrow. Anger. Guilt.

"He's in a foster home, for now. They're checking for family. Robbie's  
mom may have had a younger sister."

Mulder sighed, squirming a little to try to find a comfortable  
position. "He doesn't deserve this. None of this was his fault."

Skinner looked at him shrewdly. He'd grown to admire Mulder in many  
ways. He was smarter than anyone Skinner had ever known. His  
compassion for the victim had nearly resulted in the loss of his  
sanity during his time with VICAP. And though it was true that at  
times he came across as unbearably cocky, it only served to mask the  
fact that he valued himself so lightly. Mulder could see the worth of  
others so clearly. Why was it so hard for him to see his own?

"These things happen every day, Mulder. You of all people should  
realize that. Now how about I go find the nurse? You look like you  
could use a little something for the pain."

Though he hated the way the drugs made him feel, Mulder knew he'd  
reached the point of no return. The pain was quickly getting to the  
stage of blotting out his ability to think. He nodded reluctantly.

Skinner got up, but paused in the doorway. "Robbie made his choice,  
Mulder. In the end, I reallly think it's the one he'll be able to live  
with.

He didn't hear Mulder's reply after he'd walked out the door. "Yeah.  
But can I?"

 

St. Joseph's Hospital  
Room 312  
One week later

Mulder sat on the edge of the chair, watching the door impatiently for  
Scully. He was being discharged today: still weak, still in pain, but  
the infection had cleared up and his doctor had agreed he could make  
the trek back to D.C. Provided he remained in the care of his personal  
physician, of course.

Mulder smiled to himself at the image that thought conjured up. His  
Scully. He was actually beginning to give himself permission to think  
of her in those terms. She was just down the hall now, signing the  
paperwork that would give him his freedom -- from this place anyway.  
Scully had insisted -- no, demanded -- that he stay with her once they  
got home.

Mulder knew that going home with Scully was the only valid option.  
Eight days post-surgery and he could remain sitting upright for only  
short spans of time. As for walking, well, the six feet to the  
bathroom might as well be six miles from the way he ended up panting  
for air. Much as he despised the idea of being dependent on Scully, he  
was wise enough to admit that he wasn't ready to fend for himself yet.  
And if circumstances dictated that he must let someone take care of  
him, Scully was the only someone he wanted.

A goofy grin took over his face when he remembered her words to him in  
the cellar, and since no one was around, he let it stay. She loved  
him. Beautiful, smart, sexy Dana Scully loved aggravating, obsessive,  
screwed-up Fox Mulder. Now that was an X-File.

Those words tethered him to life when nothing else could. They'd  
motivated him to resist the urge to let himself drift away from the  
pain. They also terrified him. Knowing Scully loved him suddenly  
granted him permission to acknowledge the depth of his own feelings --  
feelings he'd been keeping carefully in check for six years. Once  
loosed, Mulder knew he'd never be able to rein them in again. It would  
hurt so badly when she left -- and it was inevitable that day would  
come. Everyone left him sooner or later.

Still, Scully had stayed by his side all week. Skinner had flown back  
to Washington on the second day, returning just this morning to help  
Scully get him home. Right now he was with the car, ready to pick them  
up when his discharge was complete. But Scully was a constant presence  
in his life -- a life where nothing ever seemed permanent. She soothed  
him when the pain meds wore off and it was too soon for another shot,  
smuggled egg drop soup to him when he thought the sight of one more  
bowl of green jello would drive him insane, and even held him when he  
woke screaming from the nightmares. Nightmares not about Gundersen,  
but his father. This experience had stirred up more than just his  
latent feelings for his partner.

Scully appeared in the doorway just then, flashing him a brilliant  
smile. "You have a funny look on your face. Penny for your thoughts."

"This is the 90s, G-woman. Can't take less then a dollar." Mulder  
frowned a little, trying to see beyond Scully into the hallway. "So  
where is it? For once even I can't argue with a wheelchair."

"I'll bring it in a minute. There's someone here who wants to see you  
first."

Mulder sighed, exasperated. "Please tell me it isn't Osterman to go  
over post-surgical care again! I've heard it all, Scully, and I  
promise I'll be a good boy. Can't we just sneak out?" He knew he was  
whining, but his patience quota with hospitals in general and medical  
personnel in particular had been exceeded long ago.

Scully just smiled softly. "I think you'll want this visitor," she  
said, looking over her shoulder and nodding at someone who waited in  
the hallway.

A moment later Robbie Gundersen stood in the doorway, looking  
uncertain.

"Robbie!" Mulder said warmly, covering his surprise. "Come on in. How  
are you doing?"

Robbie shuffled in and plopped onto the edge of the bed. When Mulder  
looked back to the doorway, Scully was gone.

"I hear you're going to California," Mulder said conversationally,  
feeling a little awkward himself. After all, he was indirectly  
responsible for Robbie losing the only life he'd known.

"Yeah. My mom's younger sister lives in Santa Rosa. I've never met  
her, but she seemed really nice on the phone." Robbie scuffed at a  
crack in the tile with the toe of his shoe.

"I hope everything turns out well for you, Robbie."

The silence hung heavily between them, until Robbie blurted, "Are you  
really going to be all right, Agent Mulder?"

"I'm going to be fine," Mulder reassured him, knowing that at the  
moment he looked anything but. He took in the anguish written so  
plainly on the boy's face and felt an answering ache in his own soul.  
"What made you decide to do it, Robbie?" he asked quietly. "I know how  
hard it must have been."

Robbie turned away from him to gaze out the window, blinking rapidly.  
"I just couldn't let it happen. When Agent Scully told me you were  
dying... You never would have been shot if it hadn't been for me! You  
tried to stop my dad from hurting me. No one ever stood up for me like  
that before."

He turned back, and for Mulder it was like looking at a mirror image  
of himself not so very long ago. Scared, angry, ashamed. Hating what  
you had, but so very afraid to lose it. Of finding out that for you,  
there was nothing better. *Full circle* he thought to himself. *Does  
it always come back to this?*

"It was more, though," Robbie continued, his voice dropping to little  
more than a whisper. "You knew. I could see it in your eyes -- the way  
you looked at my dad, and the way you looked at me. You understood.  
Sometimes I've thought I must be the only one. I couldn't let you  
die."

"I do understand," Mulder said, wishing he could make the pain  
disappear for this boy, the way he'd been unable to make it disappear  
in his own life. If Robbie was lucky, maybe his aunt could. "The  
reasons you named -- they're the reasons I had to come out to that barn  
in the first place. I'm sorry things turned out the way they did."

Robbie stood up, swiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "Don't be. My  
mom used to say everyone has two choices: you either make life happen  
for you, or let life happen to you. I think it's about time I made a  
switch."

If Robbie's aunt possessed even half of that kind of intuitiveness, he  
might just be okay, Mulder thought to himself as he stretched out his  
hand. Robbie shook it gravely.

"You saved my life, Robbie. I won't ever forget that, or you."

Robbie nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I won't forget  
you either, Agent Mulder. I think maybe you saved my life too."

Mulder watched him disappear through the doorway, a burden he hadn't  
realized he'd been carrying suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

A moment later Scully returned, this time equipped with the hated  
wheelchair. "Ready, G-man?" Her eyes softened at something she saw in  
his face. "You all right, Mulder?"

She left the chair in the doorway and crossed to his side, studying  
him closely. Mulder nodded, and held his hand out to her. When she  
took it, he surprised her by tugging gently until she was seated in  
his lap.

"I don't want to hurt you," she protested, her body stiff.

"You won't. Just let me hold you a minute, Scully. Please."

Whether it was the words themselves or the need in his voice, Scully  
relaxed against him, laying her head against his good shoulder. His  
arms cradled her gently but firmly, and she couldn't help thinking how  
good -- how right -- it felt to be there.

"You arranged for Robbie to visit, didn't you."

It was really a statement, not a question, but Scully nodded. His gray  
tee shirt felt smooth under her cheek and she could hear the steady  
beat of his heart. Alive. It would take time before he could come all  
the way back, but time was a luxury they had now. She offered up a  
silent prayer of thanks.

"How did you know?" Mulder asked.

"Somewhere along the line -- I think it was when Robbie was talking  
about how he still loved his dad -- I guess it all clicked into place.  
I began to see the link you two shared, and why he was so important to  
you. Then when you began having the nightmares... Skinner told me  
about the conversation you two had about Robbie. I thought maybe there  
was some unfinished business between the two of you."

Mulder's arms tightened around her. "Thanks. You are incredible,  
Scully. I don't deserve you."

Scully sat forward so that she could turn and look him in the eye.  
"Don't you get it by now? You deserve so much more than I could ever  
give you -- more joy, more peace, more love. But I'm going to try my  
best, Mulder. I'll give you all that I have."

Tears filled his eyes at her words, but were quickly forgotten when  
Scully leaned closer and placed her lips on his. The kiss was soft and  
undemanding by necessity, but communicated the promise of much more.

"We should go, Partner," she said when they had parted, smiling at one  
another like a couple of kids. "Skinner's waiting for us." But Mulder  
noticed she made no move to get up or remove her arms from around his  
neck.

"One more minute," he replied, pulling her back so that her head  
rested on his chest once more. He pressed another kiss to the crown of  
her head, then laid his cheek on her silky auburn hair. Robbie's words  
suddenly echoed in his mind: "You make life happen for you, or you let  
life happen to you."

*You were right, Robbie. Maybe it's time we both made a switch.*

At the moment, anything seemed possible.


End file.
